


Jewelry's Like the Perfect Spice

by SweetSmokeOfRhetoric



Category: I Am Not an Easy Man | Je Ne Suis Pas un Homme Facile (2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Sexism, F/M, Feminization, In canon usage of gender terms, Jewelry, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22859146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSmokeOfRhetoric/pseuds/SweetSmokeOfRhetoric
Summary: Both of them are confident in what Alexandra's world calls femininity.The opposite aesthetic is less comfortable.
Relationships: Damien/Alexandra
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Jewelry's Like the Perfect Spice

"You know, I met you in my old world," says Damien, from where they sprawl over each other on top of the duvet.

Alexandra's fist involuntarily clenches, as it does whenever Damien mentions the women of his fantasy Paris. She buries the crumb of jealousy under the greater sensation of disgust, and then tries to bury her reaction under a venire of nonchalance with a laugh.

"Really? Was I decked out in your beloved stilettos, then? Did you hold the door for me in a coffee shop and then ask me to dinner?"

Damien gives her a smile that is uncharacteristically soft. It's unnerving. "Not stilettos, no." He reaches and runs his thumb over her mouth. "But your lipstick was pretty."

Alexandra can't prevent her grimace. Instead, she seizes Damien's wrist and shoulders her way on top of him, muscular forearms pinning him to the sheets. 

"I wish you would let me buy you nicer clothing," she says. "Jewelry. You would look stunning in something red."

Damien scowls. Now he's the one who seems put-off. "If I was going to let you buy me something, it would be better jeans. All the ones I have pinch something awful." 

Damien, Alexandra has come to see, is disdainful of gifts. Those that she has given him—flowers, taxis, watches—and the ones that society has given to his gender. He rejects the softness, the concern, that so many other men embrace and project, instead constantly demanding a place among womanhood's rat race. As though it's the more fortunate way to exist.

She admires his tenacity. And the way he manages to match her strength for strength, step for step—that is what makes him so magnetic. 

Abruptly, Damien yanks his shoulders out from under her grasp. She lets him flip her down next to him. Face to face again, he's leering. 

"What if we made a deal? I'll wear some jewelry for you if you'll put on some lipstick for me."

Alexandra's fist spasms again. But, often as with Damien's challenges, it is hard for her senses—common and of decency—to overcome her eagerness to compete. She grins fiercely, fiercer at Damien's new look of uncertainty, and vaults off of the bed to her dresser. 

Jamming her hand into the back of the shirt drawer, she fishes out a chain of interlocking circular pendants. It might have been her father's, or maybe something she meant to give to a paramour, she's not quite sure. It's golden and dainty and masculine, and just the sort of thing Damien, with his plaid shirts and blazers and belts, would loathe to wear. 

She shows it to him, triumphant, but he makes an expression that she would call pouting on any other man's face and repeats his condition of lipstick. Fine, fair is fair. With less enthusiasm she rifles through her bedside table. She finds a stick there that a date left behind, about a year ago, misplaced in a frantic shucking of purse and clothing. 

Throwing a knee back over the bed, she turns and faces Damien. The necklace is already resting lightly around his neck. It looks like a collar.

Alexandra swallows, and it's embarrassing how urgently her belly burns with want. She may love his resistance to her sway, his matching of her seductions, but a primordial female part of her just wants to wrap him up in luxurious things and keep him by her side, mysterious and elegant, forever. She wishes that he would let her own him. 

A thought peeks through from the tightest corner of her mind, though she buries it almost instantly: that she could be willing to let him own her in return. 

Alexandra thrusts the lipstick at Damien to mask her discomfort. “Help me then, if you want to see it so bad.” 

Damien eyes at the stick, perplexed. Unexpectedly so. Alexandra has never seen him wear lipstick, not even that first day when he looked so manly in those black business flats, but surely he knows how to apply it? All of the boys Alexandra knew in school certainly did, back in the day. She tries to imagine a young Damien in an academy bathroom surrounded by giggling teenage boys, painting makeup onto each other during lunch. The picture won't come, though. No doubt he was ranting at a maths professor for giving him a lower grade than the girls, or playing hookie in a band room with a hot delinquent. 

Damien removes the cap and begins, determined, to push the crumbling paste around her lips. His own lips are pursed in concentration—she follows the motion of his squinted eyes as they focus on her mouth. When he finishes, he pulls back. His smile starts as a smirk, but melts into that softer shape from earlier. 

“Like I said,” he tells her, “Pretty.”

After she has seized him by the flimsy chain and pulled him into a harsh kiss, after they have returned to previous activities and are lying exhausted again on top of the sweaty covers, she sees the bloody color smeared across his own mouth. She wonders how someone so gorgeous could be so infuriating, so headstrong and perverted and ungrateful. Alexandra wants to fight him and beat him and own him and worship him and be loved by him. 

Abruptly and viciously, she hopes that Damien never finds his way back to his fantasy world of dominant men, that he's stuck in the real world with her, forever. She hopes that he never gets to see that other Alexandra, or any woman similar, ever again. 

Because she's starting to dread the thought of losing him.

**Author's Note:**

> I would die for my icon, Alexandra Lamour. My bra usage, I fuck you not, declined by 99% within a week of seeing her walking around in a dark room with her shirt off. She's a haughty asshole, but I would ride in the passenger seat of her sports car any day.
> 
> Also, given the definition of queer and the impact of gender roles on relationships, is this ship straight?? Discuss. 
> 
> Likes and comments sustain me...and contributing a fic to this fandom tag automatically makes you 75% hotter ;)


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